Joel Goldman - The last witness

"Give me the address," Mason said, jotting it down. "Keep an eye on them. I'm waiting to hear from Harry on something. As soon as he calls, I'll be there."

Mason stacked and unstacked the papers on his desk, rearranged the pencils in his drawer, and shot baskets with Mickey using wadded-up crank letters as basketballs and his trash can as a hoop. Mickey let him win the first two games before suggesting they play for money. Mason knew he was being set up but didn't mind. Mickey ran his scams with good humor, even making Mason feel charitable as the money changed hands.

Rachel rocketed into Mason's office at four o'clock with a set of clippings under her arm and high color in her cheeks. Mickey was bent over backward, making the winning basket in a game of H-O-R-S-E.

"Who's the contortionist?" Rachel asked.

Mickey looked up, sprang forward on one hand, and extended the other. "Mickey Shanahan."

"Beat it, Mickey," Rachel told him in a sharp tone that left no room for argument. "And close the door behind you."

Mickey looked at Mason, who nodded and pointed at the door. "She's usually a lot meaner. She's having a good day."

After Mickey closed the door, Rachel and Mason had a staring contest. Mason caught a merry glint in her eye and a fragment of a smile that turned the corner of her mouth slightly upward.

"First one to smile is a weenie," Mason said.

"Stand up and get over here."

Mason did as he was told, stopping well inside her territorial imperative while he tried to decipher the mixed message that was scrambling his hormonal network. Before he was able to crack Rachel's code, she grasped the back of his neck with both of her hands, pulled his mouth to hers, and crushed him with a kiss that nearly sucked the life out of him. Mason couldn't decide whether to hold on or beg for mercy. He settled for the Issac Newton kissing principle of equal and opposite reaction.

"Damn it!" she said when she released him and came up for air. "Nothing!"

"What's the matter?" he gasped.

"It's not your fault," she said. "You're just not a woman. What a waste!"

"Could I have a translation here or at least a reverse-angle replay?"

Rachel stroked the side of his face with excruciating tenderness. "I'm sorry, Lou. I told you not to get a crush on me because I'd break your heart. I should have listened to my own advice. You're cute, funny, and you give great tips. Today's was a megatip. I guess it all overwhelmed me, and I had to find out if it was you or the tips that were making me wet."

"Shouldn't we at least have sex just to be certain?"

"Further proof that you'll never be a woman. You'll have to settle for the clippings on Donald Ray White. Why didn't you tell me that Jack Cullan was the family's lawyer?"

Rachel handed Mason the clippings and sat down on his couch as he leafed through them. "And take all the fun out of your job?"

She joined him on the couch. "Okay, give me the rest of it." Mason started to protest, and Rachel interrupted him. "I know. It's all off the record until you tell me otherwise."

"Jack Cullan and Blues had an argument in the bar the Friday night that Cullan was killed."

"I know. That was the key to the prosecutor's case," Rachel said.

"Cullan threatened to shut Blues down. Later than night, he called Amy White and demanded that she bring him Blues's liquor control file."

"That night?"

"Cullan lived for immediate gratification. Amy told me about the call from Cullan but said that she told him that he'd have to wait until Monday morning, but Howard Trimble told me that Amy called him that night and he met her at his office and gave her Blues's file."

Rachel whistled. "So you think Amy took the file to Cullan and killed him for making her come out late at night?"

Mason shook his head. "Not exactly. According to Howard Trimble, Donald Ray was a child abuser. He'd been arrested for abusing Amy's sister, Cheryl. Amy was fifteen and Cheryl was twelve. Cullan got him off and kept it quiet and, in the process, added Donald Ray to his stable of indebted city officials. After Donald Ray got out of jail, he took his frustrations out on Cheryl, leaving her brain damaged. Then Cheryl shot her father with his own gun. Cullan made that case go away too."

"How does a brain-damaged twelve-year-old kill her father?"

"I don't think Cheryl shot her father. I think Amy did, and Cullan pinned it on Cheryl because nothing would happen to her. He made a long-term investment in Amy and was collecting-again-when he told her to get Blues's file."

"Maybe Amy decided her account was already paid in full."

"More likely that she decided to cancel the debt."

"The newspaper reported it as an accidental shooting, a tragic accident. The story says that Donald Ray had just cleaned the gun and set it down for a moment. The wife said Cheryl thought it was a toy and was playing with it when the gun went off accidentally. Everybody said how sad, and that was it. What now?"

"Harry Ryman is doing a ballistics check to see if Donald Ray and Cullan were killed with the same gun."

"Where's Amy?"

"Blues is babysitting her-from a distance. As soon as I hear from Harry, I'm going to go see her."

"Why not just send the cops to pick her up?"

"They already arrested the wrong person once. I'd like to be sure this time."

"You're better than I thought for someone with the wrong chromosomes. Keep me posted," she added before kissing him lightly on the cheek in the best tradition of sisters everywhere.

Harry called shortly after six o'clock. "You were right. But there's more there than even you thought."

Mason listened as Harry outlined what he had found. "How do you want to play this?" Harry asked him.

"Carefully. She's the last witness."

Fifteen minutes later, Mason turned onto Amy's street. It was a neighborhood where garages were used for storage or spare bedrooms and people parked on the street. Every car had been plowed in, sandwiched between a three-foot snow wall and the curb. Some people had dug out, and others had given up and gone back to bed until spring.

Amy's house was the third one in from the corner. It was dark. There was no car parked in the driveway or on the street in front of the house. Nor was Blues anywhere in sight. He wasn't parked on the street or around the corner, and he wasn't hiding behind a shrub next to Amy's front porch.

Mason opened his cell phone and realized it was off. He turned it on and saw the digital readout informing him that he'd missed a call. He punched in the code for his voice mail. The message was from Blues. Amy was running.

Mason banged his fists on the steering wheel, nearly sending the Jeep into a figure-eight spin before he pulled it back to the center of Amy's street. He drove out of her neighborhood, parked in front of a Circle K convenience store, and called Blues.

"Where the hell have you been?" Blues demanded.

"Don't turn codependent on me! What happened?"

"I lost her."

"I hope the story is better than the ending."

"About an hour ago, Amy started turning out the lights in her house. A little while later, she started loading suitcases into the trunk of her car. She drives a black Honda, probably a couple of years old."

"What? You were hiding in the garage?"

"No, boy genius. I was hiding in my car at the back of a driveway across the street. Amy's house has a detached garage. I had a clear shot."

"You don't think she noticed you sitting in her neighbor's driveway?"

"It's like this. The driveway had been plowed down to the concrete. That meant the people who lived there used a service. Newspapers from the last three days were lying on the driveway. That meant those people were out of town. The driveway curves around to a side-entrance garage that is blocked off by tall evergreens. That meant I could see Amy but she couldn't see me. I waited until it got dark and drove up with my lights off. She never saw me."